Chapter 24: Endless Illusions

The false monk sneered silently, fixing his gaze on Ding Jun's face. Suddenly, he shifted sideways and darted into the shadows. Yet, within five seconds, he retreated, emerging from the darkness with a long spear pressed against his chest.

The one holding the spear with both hands was Huoshen. He had been following Ding Jun all along, secretly aiding him, arriving just in time.

“Hey, Mr. Ding, answer whatever he asks—I'm not here to kill, only to release the curse,” Huoshen said.

The false monk’s expression finally changed: “You... you’re not working together, so how did you end up attacking in unison?”

Huoshen replied in a low voice, “You’d better not harm Miss Fang. Otherwise, when I unleash the cursed insects, you’ll regret being alive in this world.”

“Speak quickly, I haven’t much patience,” Ding Jun said with a harsh tone.

Fang Qing’s predicament weighed heavily on him, and the conspiracy of the Guge people pressed down like the dark, heavy sky, suffocating him bit by bit. He did not wish to kill, but if no other solution sufficed, he would act without hesitation.

Within Tolin Monastery, all was silent. The lights inside the various halls were steady and orderly; no signs of chaos or panic. This brought him some measure of comfort.

“We have no conflicts of interest. Release me, and Miss Fang will be safe. Then, each of us goes our own way, nobody obstructing anyone else,” the false monk showed signs of compromise.

“What is in the Sutra Pavilion? What does Tolin Monastery hold that you would repeatedly stir up trouble, even targeting a pregnant woman in the end—”

The false monk suddenly raised his hand, cutting Ding Jun off. “You find it strange? So do I. Because none of us were involved in the Sutra Pavilion matter. All this chaos has nothing to do with us.”

Ding Jun was taken aback. Under direct questioning, there was no reason to lie.

Huoshen sneered, “Not you? Then has another force broken in?”

The false monk also sneered coldly. “Then it’s nothing to do with us. Besides, all this trouble was stirred up by Shi Miaoshou. Even the leading incense master has vanished. What use is it for us to bicker here?”

“Let’s go to the Sutra Pavilion and see for ourselves,” Ding Jun said.

The false monk had no room to resist and was pushed by Huoshen toward the temple.

The three climbed over the wall and proceeded along the circumambulation path. After passing a fork, they headed straight north.

Ding Jun led, estimating that four hundred steps ahead lay the Sutra Pavilion. But after five minutes of walking, the white walls persisted on both sides, stone slabs underfoot, yet no pavilion in sight. After some time, he suddenly realized they had returned to the center of the fork.

“Stop, something’s wrong,” he immediately halted.

“What’s the matter?” Huoshen asked, puzzled.

“We’ve come full circle. Someone set up a ‘ghost wall’ here, trying to trap us,” Ding Jun said, glancing around. The night mist was rising, and beyond twenty steps, everything blurred, nothing clear.

The false monk sneered, “It’s Auntie Ge. She’s a master of ancient Persian illusions; this ‘ghost wall’ is her specialty. Now, there’s no solution but to sit tight and wait for dawn when the fog clears, breaking the illusion. I’d like to accompany you to the Sutra Pavilion, but without passing the ‘ghost wall,’ no one escapes.”

The fog thickened, tendrils of white mist swirling close, winding around the three like ethereal phantoms.

Auntie Ge was a key figure. Her disappearance had unleashed a series of eerie changes. After the corpse-reanimation incident, she remained elusive within Tolin Monastery, hidden in shadow, capable of making anyone her next prey.

It was said that black dog’s blood could dispel all trickery—whether ghost walls or possession... “Sorry about this!” Huoshen held his spear with one hand and drew a short knife from his boot with the other.

“Hey, this is Auntie Ge scheming against you; what does that have to do with me—ah!”

Before the false monk finished, Huoshen plunged the knife into his shoulder, opening a deep gash, blood spurting wildly. Yet despite the blood, the fog remained undiminished.

“I’ve had enough! Circling around, almost suffocating us in the cellar—your callousness, not ours. Don’t blame us for being ruthless...” Huoshen stabbed again with each curse. By the time he finished, the false monk slumped to the ground, transformed into a bloody gourd.

“Mr. Ding, you have to be ruthless with these people,” Huoshen said, breathing heavily.

Ding Jun nodded. “Exactly. Some people only understand force, not kindness. On this battlefield of brinkmanship, having no principles is the only real principle.”

“Time to speak the truth, or take your secrets to hell with you!” Huoshen’s knife pressed coldly against the false monk’s throat, voice devoid of emotion.

“Sutra Pavilion! Sutra Pavilion! Ding Jun, don’t kill me! I’ve discovered the secret—the secret under the carpet...” the false monk screamed, no longer maintaining his composed facade. Pretending to be tough was elegant, but Huoshen was not fooled; every stab was merciless, without a trace of intimidation.

“Speak! What is it?” Huoshen lowered the blade slightly, then carved a shallow cut along the false monk’s neck.

“I only told Ding Jun—I only told him!” The false monk wailed uncontrollably.

“Don’t you understand the situation? No bargaining now. Speak quickly!” Huoshen’s knife slashed, carving a two-inch wound, blood gushing fiercely. Then the knife slowly rose, aimed at his right eye.

“This is the mildest form of torture since you haven’t offended the Five Poisons Sect. But my patience is running thin. Speak carefully, or you’ll lose that eye,” Huoshen warned.

“Don’t kill him! He’s useful to us. Tolin Monastery is sacred ground; don’t soil it. Alright, lower your spear, this matter is over,” a voice suddenly called out from beyond the mist—He Wuqiu’s voice.

Huoshen looked up, instinctively loosening his grip on the dagger, then kicked the false monk to the ground.

The fog was so thick that no one could see beyond ten steps, so he couldn’t see who spoke.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Mr. Ding, I’m fine. I’m with Mr. He, don’t worry,” came Fang Qing’s voice.

Huoshen was overjoyed and immediately whistled thrice, lowering his spear and stepping back. Because Fang Qing was restrained, Huoshen and Ding Jun had formed an alliance against their enemies. Now that Fang Qing was safe and He Wuqiu had arrived, he felt all was well.

Ding Jun stood motionless, hands pressed along his pant seams. He had heard of the world’s most perfect ventriloquism—one person imitating hundreds of voices so precisely that even the originals could not tell the difference. Ventriloquism was part of illusion magic, a way to deceive others with sound and lead them astray.

“Mr. Ding, we’ll wait for you at the Sutra Pavilion,” Fang Qing’s voice receded, as if coming and going.

Though she didn’t explicitly say to bring two others, all hints clearly implied it. Huoshen was eager to follow the voice.

“That’s an illusion, don’t be fooled,” Ding Jun said.

The dense fog drifted restlessly, illusions endless. Even if the speaker appeared in the fog, it might not be the real person, let alone a voice without a figure.

Huoshen was smart enough to see through it at once and slapped his forehead, exclaiming, “Almost fell for it! Almost caused a disaster!” Though a top talent of his generation, his composure and combat experience still lagged far behind Ding Jun.

On a battlefield of blood and fire, life and death hung by a thread; one wrong step meant eternal damnation.

“Thanks for the warning,” Huoshen wiped cold sweat.

“I can warn you a hundred times, but if you can’t remind yourself a hundred and one times, you’ll still die. Survival in battle depends not on luck, but on strength,” Ding Jun said calmly.

“What now?” Huoshen asked.

“Wait for the illusionist to lose their composure and reveal a flaw,” Ding Jun smiled faintly, sitting cross-legged and closing his eyes to rest.

He recalled the two times he had entered the Sutra Pavilion. Si Qin’s injury threw everyone into chaos because they all knew she was carrying a child. If the Guge people hadn’t struck, then who would harbor such hatred to slash a pregnant woman’s belly twice in anger?

Of course, to kill the unborn child, the simplest way would be to kill the mother first, causing the child to perish in the womb. Why then did the killer take a more convoluted path?

More pressing in his mind was the peculiar mark beneath the carpet—a mysterious sign, with Arabic numerals serving as the most secret hint.

“Mr. Ding, we must go. Time is short,” Fang Qing’s voice came again, near then distant, as if coming and going.

“Where to?” Ding Jun asked gravely.

“Of course, to uncover the treasure hidden beneath the Sutra Pavilion’s carpet,” Fang Qing said.

“Where is the treasure?” Ding Jun deliberately slowed his voice.

“Definitely under the marked tile. Dig there, three feet down, you’ll find it,” Fang Qing answered.

Ding Jun sneered, “If it were that simple, treasure hunters would have ransacked the Sutra Pavilion long ago. Even if there were mountains of gold and silver beneath, they’d have been looted—everyone thinks the ground’s paved with ingots. Isn’t that laughable?”

Fang Qing smiled along: “Then where do you say the treasure is?”

“I have a preliminary idea but need time to verify. Why don’t you come over and we study it together?—Auntie Ge?”

Hehehehehe... The voice in the fog suddenly changed, old and cold—it was Auntie Ge.

The moment the laughter rang out, Ding Jun sprang into the fog, moving in a large counterclockwise arc, approaching the source from the side and rear. In the haze, countless hideous ghosts seemed to lurk, but Ding Jun was undeterred, advancing steadily. His hand swept low, close to his pant seam, and with a flick, two small knives plunged into the back of a man in a white robe.

The throwing knives hit their mark, but the robe suddenly exploded into hundreds of palm-sized fragments, fluttering like wounded butterflies.

“All conditioned phenomena are like a dream, an illusion, a bubble, a shadow; like dew or lightning, so should one view them.” Auntie Ge recited as she fled.

That was a line from the Diamond Sutra, explaining the philosophical relationships between existence and nonexistence, dream and reality, destruction and creation, past and future—contrasts that coexist and perpetuate.

Ding Jun pursued relentlessly. Having found the enemy’s weak point, he would press the attack, expanding from point to surface until he dealt a crushing blow. The opportunity was fleeting; he had to leave Huoshen and the false monk behind, breaking from one enemy formation into another.

Suddenly, he heard melodious, graceful drum music.

“This time, you’ve fallen into my gentle embrace. Aren’t you grateful?” Auntie Ge’s figure split into four, drifting in four directions, her words echoing and fading.

Ding Jun felt as if surrounded by a troupe of graceful female dancers, their tinkling ornaments and rhythmic steps filling the air with an intoxicating, exotic fragrance. His murderous intent dispersed in the scent; his unwavering fighting spirit unconsciously slackened, the tension in his face slowly melting away.

The dancers’ postures were enchanting and ever-changing, their every gesture radiating intense foreign allure. Strange hairstyles hung from their heads—braiding styles Ding Jun had never seen. As their sashes fluttered in the wind, their ample curves were faintly visible beneath.

“Auntie Ge, don’t force me to kill!” Ding Jun growled.

“Kill, kill, this calamity at Tolin Monastery spares no one. Stop pretending to restrain yourself. Countless righteous souls ultimately seek only fame; there is no strict boundary between good and evil. Your killing them is no different from my killing Shi Miaoshou. Hehehehe...” Auntie Ge’s voice came from above.

Ding Jun looked up. The fog had dissipated. Against the dark and deep sky, a bizarre Buddha statue with a man’s head and bird’s body loomed high, wielding iron chains in one hand and holding a treasure vase in the other, exposing its upper torso. Its monstrous eyes stared wide, looking down.

“All things are born with heaven; man has nothing like heaven. Kill! Kill! Kill!” The grotesque Buddha roared, swinging the iron chains. At the chain’s end was a huge black snake’s head, snapping at prey.

“This time, you’re doomed!” Auntie Ge’s laughter rang out from twenty steps ahead.

Ding Jun advanced swiftly with his knife, but suddenly a creature with a woman’s head and snake’s body burst forth beneath his feet. Its hands were pressed together, and small writhing snakes coiled around its head, neck, wrists, and fingers. Its long snake tail coiled once, wrapping around Ding Jun. Then the ground collapsed, and the snake body fell, dragging Ding Jun into endless darkness.

“Heaven, Demon, Dissolve, Disintegrate, Great, Method!” Ding Jun silently recited six words, biting his tongue hard, exerting force six times, each more intense than the last, fresh blood seeping, increasingly bitter and salty.

Illusions arise from the heart, and the blood on the tongue is the essence of the soul. Once blood flows, all illusions vanish. For this reason, the “Heaven Demon Dissolution” technique is the strongest bane of all illusion arts.

Ignoring the countless hallucinations before his eyes and ears, Ding Jun reached behind his waist, drawing a flexible steel sword from his belt, and twisted his arm to stab backward.

The most dangerous place was the safest place. Illusionists often hid behind or even clung to their enemies to maximize confusion.

That sword pierced through Auntie Ge’s chest.

Ding Jun retreated while pushing forward, both man and sword moving until the blade tip pierced a thick corridor pillar.

“Auntie Ge, you’ve done too many dazzling things, gathering too many impossibilities together—colorful and resplendent, a thousand Buddhas assembled, truly bewildering and unsettling. But you should understand the principle of ‘excess is as bad as deficiency.’ The illusion of sixteen Diamond Warrior dancers beneath the red hall’s colonnade was already enough to trap me, yet you summoned the man-headed bird murals and the woman-headed snake’s figure to surround me—an unnecessary embellishment. Furthermore, you had the Seven Kill Stele inscriptions of late Ming’s Zhang Xianzhong shouted through the man-headed bird’s mouth, mixing fish eyes with pearls, completely mistaken... In a fierce fight, a single mistake can mean death. You’ve made so many. If I don’t seize this opportunity, can I survive and leave Tolin Monastery?” Ding Jun released the sword’s hilt, slowly turning to face Auntie Ge’s aged, shadowed face.